


first name basis

by kagako



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Kouta is kind of smart but also not they are both actually dumb, M/M, Relationship Problems, not rly but like kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-08 00:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17376059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagako/pseuds/kagako
Summary: There were a number of things he liked (loved) about the man. Except, perhaps one.-Takatora has trouble calling Kouta by his given name.





	first name basis

**Author's Note:**

> hello! lately i've been thinking about these two a lot, so i decided to finish a fic that's been laying around on my computer for a while.  
> is this an AU??? probably???? Nothing bad ever happened and kouta isn't a god! thanks!  
> anyways, please enjoy, and thank you!

Kureshima Takatora was a polite man.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course. Kouta liked that about him. He liked when he could feel Takatora’s fingertips against the small of his back, liked when Takatora took into thought of how Kouta felt about _dining_ and instead ordered take-out—Kouta _especially_ liked the way Takatora would press his lips into a line and fight a smile whenever he’d mumble something somewhat inappropriate in public.

There were a number of things he liked (loved) about the man.

Except, perhaps one.

“Kazuraba,” filters through Kouta’s ears, and it’s eerie, how well his mind copies the exact roll of his name from Takatora’s mouth. The same pitch, the same low tone—everything about it could have come from the real thing and yet he can’t help but wonder why his given name was never called.

This time, when _“Kazuraba”_ greets his ears, it’s accompanied by a hand atop his own. Kouta jumps in surprise, eyes wide as he looks up at Takatora, and he thinks, _so that’s why it was so perfect in my mind._

“Takatora?” Kouta says, and if he slips in a little bitterness while saying his _given_ name—well, whatever.

“Are you alright? I’ve been calling your name for a while now.”

Kouta pauses here, allowing his eyes to wander about Drupers for a moment. It was strange, seeing Takatora in a place like this; but when he’d texted Takatora back earlier, with the invitation, _we can meet at Charmant instead?_ he had been given the simple reply of, _No, Drupers would be lovely. See you soon._

“Yeah, I am. Just thinking about some stuff,” he says almost dismissively, casting his eyes down to the parfait in front of him only to lift his gaze once more.

Kouta watches as Takatora tilts his head, curious; he can see it lingering in his eyes, the need to say, _what were you thinking about,_ but Takatora’s mouth doesn’t move—truly always the polite man. He’s never forced Kouta into anything, never tried to get him to speak about something if Kouta didn’t bring it up first.

If he were being honest, he was thankful; of course, there were some things he didn’t want to talk about—but Kouta couldn’t deny the itching irritation beneath his skin, no matter how much he didn’t want to be annoyed with Takatora.

“I see,” is all Takatora says, in the end. Simple as that, like closing a book.

They sit across from each other in silence, nothing but the other patron’s voices and the faint sounds of birds outside around them. It’s relaxing—always is, with Takatora, but there’s something _seriously_ bothering Kouta. When he peeks up at Takatora, he sees that the other’s plate is empty and he’s simply looking out the window, the tiniest of smiles curving at his lips.

“Hey… Takatora.”

“Yes?” comes the other’s immediate reply.

Again, Kouta pauses. He doesn’t want to upset Takatora, anything but that—but surely there shouldn’t be so much respect layered between them when they are dating, right? _Right,_ Kouta tries to convince himself, tries to tell himself that it’s plausible.

So he steels himself, steadying his voice and making sure his hands aren’t shaky as he says, “You know, you can just call me Kouta. Micchy does all the time, so I don’t mind at all. Plus, you’re older, it feels weird when you’re so polite—“

“I couldn’t do that,” Takatora interrupts him, shutting him down on the spot—which wasn’t that polite at all, but—that’s a start, maybe? “The respect and gratitude I have towards you won’t permit me.”

“But, you know I call _you_ Takatora, no honorifics, you’re older, I’m younger—“

“You’re different,” he says simply, as if it were simple mathematics. When Kouta opens his mouth to argue, Takatora speaks quickly: “Are you finished, Kazuraba? I’m afraid my lunch hour is almost over.”

Dejectedly, Kouta nods.

“Is that so? Wait outside for me, I’ll pay.”

Kouta doesn’t mean to drag his feet as he leaves Drupers, but he does. He also doesn’t want to be petty about this, but since he’s a tad bit angrier than usual, he decides to let himself to get away with it. So when Takatora finishes paying and makes his way out the door and towards him, Kouta doesn’t wait up—he walks a little faster than usual, kicking up tiny rocks as he makes his way down the backstreets, their usual route. He relies solely on his ears, listening to Takatora’s footsteps to make sure he’s following.

There’s an itch on his skin—it’s excruciating, walking such a familiar road and not having his fingers slotted through Takatora’s; but he endures it, curls his nails into the palms of his hands as if to steel his resolve. It’s only when the park—their rendezvous spot—that the isolated backstreet leads to comes into sight that he feels regret wired deep in his stomach.

He stands there, almost at a loss for words until he feels Takatora’s hand on his elbow. Kouta turns toward him, his anxieties at peace as Takatora’s hand never leaves his arm—he can feel himself caving in, his eyes are settled on Takatora’s lips and all he wants to do is crane his neck and have Takatora meet him halfway—

“Kazuraba?”

Kouta sighs. He averts his gaze, reaching for Takatora’s unoccupied hand—and he has to fight a smile as the hand on his arm slides down to take hold of his other hand. _There’s no harm in allowing this,_ he thinks.

“Kazuraba,” Takatora tries again, his voice a little tighter this time.

When Kouta looks up, Takatora is closer than before—that familiar look is in his eyes, and while Kouta wants to grant him with what he wants (what they _both_ want), he doesn’t. Instead, Kouta smiles up at Takatora, squeezing his hands and bringing them up to his lips. He kisses at Takatora’s knuckles and quickly lets his hands go before he comes to regret his decision.

Kouta takes a step back, his chest tightening at the calculating look in Takatora’s eyes—he controls it well, but after being with Takatora this long, Kouta knows the signs.

“See you later?” Kouta asks.

Takatora nods, his expression unchanging.

“Cool, okay. Bye, Takatora.”

“Good bye, Kazuraba.”

Kouta tries to ignore the stare he feelings boring into the back of his head as he walks off.

***

A week later, they meet at the park. It’s sunny and a bit breezy—their spot (this creaky wooden bench that’s _probably_ rotting, Takatora always says, to which Kouta laughs at as he proceeds to _flop_ down on it—shaving a few years off Takatora’s life) under the trees is a bit cooler due to the combined shade and breeze but it is not uncomfortable. Kouta feels at peace here, the wind tickling his cheeks and naturally drifting Takatora’s scent under his own very nose.

He doesn’t except Takatora to bring it up.

“Does it… bother you?”

Kouta furrows his brows, confused. There wasn’t much that bothered him, after all—except maybe separating whites and colors in the laundry _(“why can’t they all go in the same load?” he complained once, and had gotten a flick on the ear from nee-chan),_ or perhaps when his food is too soggy, or the draft that comes in from the window, or maybe—

“That I won’t call you by your name,” Takatora supplies helpfully, as if Kouta had forgotten entirely.

The younger hums as he tilts his nose to the sky. He could feel Takatora’s eyes on him, as if he were trying to conjure up the power to read Kouta with the intensity of his gaze. When Kouta speaks, he doesn’t turn toward Takatora.

“A little bit, I guess,” Kouta says. He struggles with his words as he twists his lips a bit; it’s not like it’s his intention to make Takatora feel bad—but at the same time, there needed to be a page where they could both be on. “It’s just—well, I get it, but that was a long time ago, you know? There is… nothing you have to thank me for. There’s no reason for you to feel indebt to me, anymore. We—we are, ah—“ here, Kouta’s laugh is sheepish and his smile is bashful. He scratches at the back of his head before he continues: “—we are dating, right? We’re… equals.”

For a while, Takatora doesn’t say anything. From the corner of his eye, Kouta catches him opening his mouth only to shut it immediately, as if he couldn’t allow himself to speak. He can’t help but wonder what’s going on in Takatora’s mind—his face is void of any serious emotion, but he doesn’t look like he’d rather be anywhere else but by Kouta’s side, so the younger supposes he hadn’t made him too upset.

A minute passes before Takatora hums as if to catch Kouta’s attention.

When Kouta looks over, there’s a serious expression on the other’s face. Kouta opens his mouth, worry on the tip of his tongue before Takatora speaks instead.

“Kouta,” leaves Takatoras lips carefully, almost like he didn’t want to say the name wrong. Immediately, Kouta perks up—his eyes widen and the corners of his lips quirk upward into a smile. He’s about to lean over and grab Takatora by the collar just as “-san,” leaves Takatora’s lips.

_Kouta-san._

It’s probably comical, Kouta thinks, how quickly the enthusiasm disappears from his face—kind of like a balloon deflating.

Takatora must sense this (can obviously _see_ it) because a soft murmur of, “Sorry, Kazuraba,” leaves his lips. Kouta’s brow furrows before he can control his expression. The little voice in the back of Takatora’s mind says, _cute,_ but the sensible part of his brain scrambles for recovery. “I mean, Kouta-san.”

Kouta sighs again, his shoulders drooping because defeat is heavy and he hates it. Beside him, he can practically feel the endless waves of restlessness coming from Takatora—when Kouta looks over, he can’t help but give a smile. Takatora sits properly, his back straight and his shoulders set while his feet are settled side by side on the ground.

_Or maybe it’s because this bench creaks at the tiniest of movements and is probably, definitely rotting_ , Kouta’s mind supplies, but the thought of Takatora sitting so stiffly due to nerves is incredibly endearing, so he sticks with that thought instead.

Either way, his smile doesn’t falter.

Kouta leans toward Takatora, resting his full weight against him, head to shoulder—and feels Takatora relax the tiniest bit.

“We’ll work on it,” he says.

***

Their next few meetings are one part excruciating, two parts irritating.

Takatora is an understanding man, of course—he understands Kazuraba’s reasoning’s, the way he’s thought this whole situation through and through; but there’s an itching in the back of Takatora’s mind that is firm on the way he addresses his lover.

_Lover,_ rings in his ears.

Just as he is understanding, he is equally as observant.

It dons on him the day Kazuraba invites him to stay the night— _nee-chan said something about being out late tonight, think you can sneak away from Micchy?_ (followed by various emoticons that Takatora didn’t know the meaning of, but that is neither here nor there.) A part of him wonders if Akira knows, if she can tell by the look in her brother’s eyes and by the wideness of his smile that he found someone special.

_I think I can manage,_ was his reply.

When he knocks on the door to the tiny apartment later that same evening, he’s greeted with a smile. It’s the same smile as usual: bright, excited, welcoming. Takatora can feel a rush of contentment wash over him, and he wonders if this feeling will ever lessen over time—can’t help but be against it.

“Takatora,” Kazuraba says in greeting. He takes a step back, giving Takatora enough space to slip inside.

Once the door shuts behind him, Takatora’s reaching for the other. “Kazuraba,” he returns in greeting, and leans down. It surprised him—the feeling of hair against his lips and not another pair; when he looks down, Kazuraba’s face is nestled against the crook of his neck. There’s only a breath of a moment before Kazuraba is leaning back, hands slipped inside Takatora’s.

His smile looks off, as does the look in his eyes, but Takatora says nothing.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”

At that, Kazuraba brightens, just a little. His smile is shy and his laugh is sweet; there’s a lightness in Takatora’s chest as he watches the other scratch at his cheek all the while keeping their hands linked. “I made curry—Bandou gave me his recipe. I noticed you clear your plate kinda quick when you eat it, so I thought I could try it out. Oh, but this is my fourth attempt so if you smell anything bad, I swear it’s not the curry I just probably perfected.”

Kazuraba’s words evoke a laugh out of Takatora—and he doesn’t know why, exactly, the thought comes to mind, but now that it’s there, in the front of his consciousness…

“Thank you, Kouta-san.”

The reaction is priceless. Takatora can practically _see_ the sun in the other’s eyes, can feel the intensity of the stars heat in his wide smile. The laughter that reaches his ears is giddy and a pitch higher than usual, but it’s no less pleasant. It’s a fierce battle, keeping his smile contained, and the need for control only strengthens as Kazuraba shuffles closer, as he stands on his tip toes to place a kiss at the corner of his lips.

It was a deliberately placed kissed. Takatora could have easily turned his head the tiniest bit and had their lips connected, but there was something about Kazuraba’s hands—firm and still on his shoulders, that seemed to will him into marble. So he stayed still, accepting the purposefully placed kiss upon the corner of his mouth—and for some reason, Takatora had the inkling feeling of losing a battle he hadn’t known he’d been a part of.

*

All throughout the evening, Takatora’s efforts seem to be in vain.

He thought that maybe Kazuraba would soften as the night went on, but the guy in question showed no signs. Takatora would lean closer, trying not to make a big deal out of the way they seem to melt into each other—and he’d tilt his head, rest his cheek on top of Kazuraba’s head only for the other to squirm away, or to pretend to stretch as he scooted forward and off the couch, or the bed, wherever they sat together.

“Kouta-san?” Takatora had said, countless times—and just like before, Kazuraba perked up, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. He leaned back to kiss Takatora’s cheek only to scoot away once more.

“Sorry. My legs fell asleep.”

“No need to apologize, Kouta-san.”

It was endearing to watch the other light up and to see such a shy smile. Takatora began to wonder what reaction he’d see if he didn’t add the honorific, but every time _Kouta_ left his lips, _san_ couldn’t help but rush through as well.

To say the least, it was incredibly frustrating.

However, he thought, perhaps there was one last thing he could do.

As the television played reruns of a show Takatora wasn’t particularly paying attention to, Kazuraba began yawning; so much that, finally, he turned to Takatora with a sheepish grin and said, “Let’s… head to bed?”

Their routine usually never changes.

Takatora agrees easily enough, allowing Kazuraba to take him by the hand. He trails behind the other; and this sight, too, always caught him off guard. To think that someone so slight in stature and frame could carry so much on their shoulders—it was one of the few things that Takatora found himself at a loss of words for.

The two of them bump shoulders and elbows in the tiny bathroom. Kazuraba squints at him in the mirror, quite like a challenge—he even scrunches his nose for added effect, but it only causes Takatora to snort and roll his eyes.

However, this time Takatora can feel something different. Their close proximity makes his skin vibrate, and his hands itch to reach over the mere inches of space between them; his _want_ urges him to do so, but his _logic_ tells him to respect this unspoken resolve Kazuraba placed between them.

Takatora never knew he was this weak of a man.

He exits the bathroom first as the itch on his skin becomes more prominent. As he settles in Kazuraba’s can-barely-fit-two bed, he reasons with himself.

_It is normal to desire your lover,_ he tells himself—and the mental check he’s been keeping tells him they haven’t kissed in… a while, to say the least; it is then that Takatora wonders yet again how he became so weak. _How long has it been…since…_ he clears his throat here, unwilling to complete the thought. It leads him back to the cause: _Kouta-san._

“Takatora?”

The mind is a strange thing, Takatora thinks. The way his mind brings Kazuraba’s voice from memory to the surface of his thoughts is incredible—there’s the same roll of the last syllable, the same cheery tilt of his voice around the last _a_. If, in the moment, there hadn’t been a hand settled on his forehead, he would have smiled—but instead, Takatora pulls himself from his thoughts and blinks up at Kazuraba’s furrowed brow.

“Kazu—Kouta-san?”

“Are you okay, Takatora?”

The question doesn’t make much sense to him—after all, how could he be okay after such a touch-deprived night? But Takatora figures this is okay: Kazuraba is leaned over him, a hand on his forehead, and his breath against his cheek. Takatora tilts his head, says, “I’m fine, Kouta-san.”

Kazuraba hums, and he looks like he’s about to argue, but he doesn’t. He gives Takatora a simple smile instead, settling in beside him on the bed that barely fits the two of them. Kazuraba hooks a leg with Takatora’s, shifting close—but not quite close enough. It is excruciating, to feel his heat seep into his own, to feel breath tickling his skin, but somehow Takatora relaxes the tiniest bit. He shifts, trying to get comfier, and the desire pooling in his stomach is almost too much to ignore.

He wonders how Kazuraba would react, if he pushed him, back flat against the bed; if he settled a hand on his thigh only to spread his legs, and settle between them. What face would Kazuraba make, if he forced his tongue into his mouth? Takatora can feel a noise building in his throat, and he swallows it down quickly before it wrenches its way out.

As he drifts, he wonders how he became so weak, and when he feels something brush against his lips, he has no remaining energy to wonder what it was.

***

The next week is—he wonders how to put it, because it is neither good nor bad. He notices a pattern— _Kazuraba_ earns him a kiss on the shoulder, or the hand, anywhere that isn’t too intimate; and _Kouta-san_ earns him a kiss on his cheek, or the corner of his mouth. It was very deliberate, and very frustrating to go through.

He sits at his desk, paper work in front of him yet his mind is wandering, floating along the thoughts of _should I do this_ and _how can I get him to see what I mean_ —and he should really be paying attention, because the doors to his office are open, and anyone could wander in, and—

“Excuse me,” a voice sing-songs, pulling Takatora from the lull of his mind.

Takatora looks up, only to scowl.

Ryoma gives him a teasing smile, tilting his head as he gives Takatora a one-through stare. He hums, bending at the waist as he strides forward, as if to catch the other’s gaze. “Trouble in paradise?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound concerned at all. If anything, he looks like a panther; all curled lip and narrowed eyes, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness.

Takatora gives him a look too, a brow raised as if to relay the fact that, _I don’t have time for your games._

They stare at each other, this silent, back and forth game of wills and neither of them are sure how long it goes on until Ryoma frowns, this bored look rooted in his eyes because he hadn’t gotten what he wanted: a rile out of this much too serious Kureshima kid in front of him. Takatora lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding as Ryoma tosses a few papers his way, turning on his heel and out the door.

*

He spots Yoko on his way out, and suddenly a light bulb flashes in his mind. She must hear his footsteps, because she stops and turns halfway toward him, and Takatora wonders why she isn’t more surprised to see him jogging toward her. He tries to push it from his mind as he slows beside her, easily matching her pace as she begins to walk once he caught up to her.

Takatora opens her mouth to speak, but she interrupts him.

“I heard you have…” she pauses here, searching for the words, “…trouble in paradise?”

He can’t help the click of his tongue once he connects the dots. Takatora glances at her, and he doesn’t expect the small smile teasing her lips. He groans, rubbing the back of his neck because the embarrassment is too much.

“I guess you could put it that way,” he admits.

They turn the corner, making their way outside through the double doors just as she says, “So, tell me.”

“I… can’t call my lover by name, because I respect them too much…” he trails off here, shaking his head because he’s sure the fact that he can only call him _Kouta-san_ won’t improve the way it sounds. “And now, they are…” he coughs here, thankful for the cool night air against his face, “…ignoring my advances.”

“I never knew you were so lame,” she says, blunt as always.

He comes to a stop, so Yoko does, too.

“I’m being serious,” Takatora tells her, furrowing his brow. An awkward tension settles in his muscles—if he could forget this conversation all together, that’d be find with him.

“As am I,” Yoko counters, but then she smiles. “I am not sure I have… quality advice to give.”

“Any would be appreciated,” he says, all honest and wrung out.

“Just do as you feel.”

Takatora squints, running the words through his mind. He doesn’t see how that would be helpful, and when he tells her so, Yoko simply shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve got to get over yourself, you know,” she says, and as she turns and leaves him behind, he could swear she sees her shoulder shake with laughter.

***

_Come over,_ read the text from Kazuraba.

Takatora wants to think it is some kind of sign— _just do as you feel._ He thumbs back a reply, quick and to the point: _I’m heading there now, wait for me._ Takatora imagines the smile on his face as he reads it, and it eases his anxieties.

He steels himself, because regardless of the calm that washes over him, he feels as though he were in for a long night.

*

“Kouta-san,” he says in greeting. The warmth of the apartment washes over him easily as he steps inside, shrugging off his coat and slipping out of his shoes. Takatora turns toward the other, who is fighting a smile, but Takatora is sharper than that, can see right through him; so he steps toward, his hands palm up, inviting.

Kazuraba squints like it’s a challenge, to see who gets there first, but like always they meet halfway—he slips his palms against Takatora’s, sliding them up and over clothed forearms, hidden muscle. A hum makes its way from his throat, and it is then he finally caves in and smiles. Kazuraba shuffles closer, resting his forehead against Takatora’s shoulder.

“Did you have a good day?” he asks, because the moment is tender and he wants to know.

Takatora nods, moving his hands from Kazuraba’s elbows and to his hips. “Yes. And you?”

“Yes,” Kazuraba says, all smiles and a laugh. “I made curry.”

Takatora inhales, nodding in satisfaction. He drops his hands, pulling back a bit to lace their fingers together. “Let’s eat. I won’t be a problem here, Kouta-san?”

“Huh?” he hums, keeping hold of the other’s hand as he leads the way to the kitchen. They are there in no time, fifteen steps forward and a little ways to the right, and Takatora can see the mess, but he smiles as the mental image of Kazuraba being busy in the kitchen. “No, nee-chan’s out—one of her friends is getting married, so…”

“Ah, I see,” is all Takatora says as he takes a seat.

They eat in silence, legs tangled by the ankles—and it’s comfortable, a kind of homey feeling that Takatora never experienced before, but it isn’t a burden on him. He likes the atmosphere; there is no weight on his chest _(“you have expectations to fill, Takatora-san)_ , no long table of fine silverware _(“you must be able to be accustomed to fine dining, Takatora-san)_ and suddenly, he’s thankful. In Kouta’s eyes, he is a simple man, and that is all he will ever be.

His eyes trail upward to Kazuraba’s face: he’s stuffing his mouth, eyes bright with happiness and Takatora never wants this to change. He must have felt him staring, because he looks up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he smiles expectantly, as if waiting for words.

“Takatora?” Kazuraba says after being met with silence and the man in question has to shake himself.

He comes to a realization then, that Kouta is more than he had ever asked for.

“Kouta.”

The man in question opens his mouth, an answer on his tongue, but it’s then that the word filters through. _Kouta._ He can feel his cheeks flush, bright red, and he’s sure Takatora can see because even though he quickly covered his face with his hands, Kouta is sure that even his _ears_ are on fire, and—

“Kouta,” Takatora says again, and it makes Kouta groan. He can feel the tears threaten his eyes, and it only makes him press his palms against his face even more. Takatota would never admit it aloud, but the sight was a bit comical.“Kouta.”

“St—Stop! Stop!” Kouta pleads, and then: “I never thought you’d be able to do it!”

Takatora laughs, a bit of egoistic pride swelling in his chest because he managed to prove Kouta wrong, although it took some time. He hums, raising a brow, and he doesn’t mean to tease him, but he remembers the pattern and the deliberate kisses. “So, you were never going to kiss me again?”

Kouta drops his hands, eyes wandering off somewhere other than toward Takatora. He’s got this shameful look on his face as if he definitely got caught. “W—When you slept over, I would kiss you in your sleep.”

“Ah,” he sighs, “that’s it. I see.”

Kouta gives him a look, _hard_ and he’s trying for scary, but Takatora gives him a small smile, and Kouta can’t help but fall into it. He reaches across the table, wiggling his fingers until Takatora takes the hint, meeting him halfway to slot his fingers between Kouta’s own.

“I’m glad to see we are finally on a first name basis,” Kouta says, and from there, the night couldn’t have been better.

***

Kouta sighs, coming to a spot in the road. They’re on their usual route, on their way to the park so Takatora could get back from his lunch break and he wonders, _why can’t lunch breaks be longer._ He stands there, fidgeting, his mind on fire because it doesn’t feel real, and—

“Kouta?” comes Takatora’s voice—easily, laced with worry, and the man in question can’t help the smile that immediately tugs at his lips.

He steps toward, and Takatora has the inkling thought that Kouta resembles a puppy—bright eyes, easy smile, unshaken yet straightforward personality. His hands reach out, and Takatora meets him in the middle, his own smile tugging at his lips. Their palms slide together effortlessly, and Kouta cranes his neck up, standing on his tip-toes, because he can’t help but get as close as he could get.

Takatora inclines his head, bumping foreheads, and it invokes a laugh from Kouta.

“Again, again,” he’s saying, like a request for an encore.

“No,” Takatora says, trying not to show his embarrassment.  He clears this throat, “once per day.”

Kouta whines, rubbing his forehead against Takatora’s. “That’s just not right,” he scolds him, and it makes Takatora laugh, makes him think about how lucky he is in this moment, with Kouta’s breath against his lips, and their hands on each other. He remembers when he fell hard, and when he tried to deny himself of his feelings—and he remembers the moment he gave up, because Kouta is like the sun and the breeze: enticing, surrounding him easily and he is so warm, so forgiving.

Perhaps, beneath it all, he is truly the weakest of them all.

“Kouta,” he says again, just to see him smile.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!♥


End file.
